


The Empty Hearth

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Canon References, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV John Watson, Pre and Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adapted from Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Empty House", just a short story about John and Sherlock's reunion that I have been idly imagining for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty Hearth

**Author's Note:**

> (This is my first fan-fic, in fact the first fiction I've written in years, written very quickly instead of the lab report I was supposed to be doing.. I regret nothing).

 

 Worn floorboards were briefly illuminated by the dirty yellow street-light, before the heavy front door swung closed behind them. John took a deep breath of musty air, thick and undisturbed. Running his fingers along the flaking wallpaper of the hallway, he hesitated in the almost complete darkness. A second later he felt strong slim fingers through the cuff of his coat, pulling him insistently along the hall by his wrist. Sherlock released him as they stepped into the first room on their left, and he stalked briskly over towards the grimy window which looked out onto the street. John hovered just inside the doorway, watching the light clinging to the odd planes of Sherlock's slender face.  As John cleared his throat, he noted the other man's cat like eyes flash over to him, and he pressed his lips back together. He smiled to himself, he didn't even resent feeling ignorant of his plans, he was so relieved to be breathing the same air as his friend again. Until not two hours ago he had believed Sherlock to be dead, had almost come to terms with the void that his supposed suicide had created. John had been at the kitchen table, squinting in the glare from his laptop, when suddenly he sensed a movement in the doorway. He had been paralysed, fear and hope flooding through him in equal measure as he took in the gaunt figure that was undeniably Sherlock. Then the ghost had smiled and said tiredly, "Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." 

   John felt laughter in his throat and almost let it escape at the sight of Sherlock's consternation from across the room. In the same instant, however, there was the thud of the front door closing and the groan of floorboards as somebody moved in the main hallway. John's eyes moved to the door, while in his peripheral vision a shroud of black swooped towards him from the window. One hand pressed over John's mouth, the other held his forearm, and John's back pressed against the wall in the shadows just behind the open door. Sherlock's gaze fixed him, instructing him to remain silent as the footsteps paused in the doorway. John moved his head almost imperceptibly. The bony fingers gently peeled away, and Sherlock moved his face closer as his fingertips grazed down John's jaw to his throat, pausing. Sherlock tucked his nose close to John's ear, his black curls and billowing dark coat shielding them both completely in the murky light. Behind them the stranger had paced over to the window, and apparently found what he was looking for in the windows of the flats in the building opposite. John watched as the bulky figure knelt, reaching  into a large hold-all. There was a glimmer of metal as the man drew out his weapon. John felt Sherlock shift, became aware of a soft heat at his neck that was left as the taller man withdrew. With the grace of a dancer Sherlock silently closed the gap on the man who now pressed his sights to his eye socket as he crouched at the window, and before he could move Sherlock had him in a headlock. John watched with amusement as Sherlock seemingly effortlessly subdued the intruder's attempts to fight back, before rousing himself into action and moving over to help his friend. He reached into Sherlock's deep pocket and felt the cool metal of handcuffs, which he the then applied with efficiency. John stepped back and noted the familiar gleam of success brought to Sherlock's eyes by another plan well executed. John then glanced down at the gun, and followed its long tapered barrel on its incline, and saw its intended target. Up in the first floor window across the road, illuminated by warm yellow light calling home and safety, was the silhouette of his friend who at that moment moved to his side. Sherlock chortled darkly. 

 "Uncanny isn't it." John clenched his jaw and turned to face yet another man, now glowering from his position handcuffed to a radiator, who sought to kill his friend. After a pause Sherlock touched his arm and John felt his fist relax, at which point he let his remaining fury sweep him out of the room and back to 221B. 

  

  The fire crackled and John followed the veins of bright orange as they filled the cracks of bark in the burning logs. He shifted in his chair, tilting his head slightly as his ears drank in the sound of Sherlock idly stroking the bow across his violin. Overcome with fatigue, he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the room was silent and there were only embers in the grate. Panic tore at him, but the chill only had a moment to sprint across his skin before his eyes found Sherlock still in the seat opposite. The keen eyes were wide open and fixed on his face, and John suddenly felt shame at his fleeting loss of composure. He stood up suddenly and although the blood rushed to his feet he kept his momentum, moving around behind the chair. Losing his balance he reached for the wall, and at the same time felt a strong hand on his shoulder. 

"I'm fine." He said rather sharply, heat flooding his cheeks. John stared at the carpet, and the leather clad toes of Sherlock as he stood in front of him. When his head cleared he raised his chin and read concern in his friend's face. John considered apologising for being tired and irrational, but before that thought manifested as words he changed his mind, and retreated back to defensiveness as Sherlock's eyes stayed locked on him.

"I'm fine." He said again, more quietly but still as firmly. "Stop deducing." Sherlock's broad smooth lips pursed, and infuriatingly all he did was lean back to perch on the back of John's chair. With this new distance he felt yet more exposed, and shifted his weight to move away. 

 "You're not wrong, John." Sherlock's voice was low and pained, arresting John in his tracks. He turned back to face him. Now Sherlock was staring at the floor just in front of his feet, the jet curls hiding his expression. John didn't even try to think of what to say, he was so surprised at the vulnerability of his demeanour. As if hearing this thought Sherlock raised his eyes to John's and an odd smile played at his mouth. 

  "You're not wrong," he repeated, "to have expected me to be different. I have changed." His voice rose as he said those last words, as if startled that they were his own. John glanced down at Sherlock's right hand, where the knuckles shone white as they moved like oiled gears beneath taut skin. When he looked back up, Sherlock's face had taken on a new intensity, tilting his head very slightly and peering at John once more like he was mounted on a microscope slide. 

 "But I cannot stop my deductions." With the finality of that sentence John felt newly threatened, jolted as his pain and fear of the past years readjusted to the new inevitability that stood so resolutely before him. Sherlock would never be safe, he would never stop. He had him back now but that could end tonight, tomorrow. 

"And you won't stop either." Sherlock continued, in the same tone of surprise. John's morbid thoughts broke jaggedly, swallowed up by confusion. Sherlock stepped forward, and John watched as his slender hand rose towards him.

 "It's in your blood." Fingertips at his jugular, skin stretched over the soft cartilage of his throat. John found he had closed his eyes and when he opened them there was nowhere to hide. His mouth was dry but he felt he must speak. Sherlock could feel the movement of muscle but did not remove his fingers. 

 "What is that supposed to mean?" he murmured with more genuine consternation than the sarcasm he had aimed for. He was afraid now, for the first time since he had been subject to it, afraid of the impenetrability of Sherlock's expression. His eyes were calm and yet full of something inexplicable, the proud line of his cupid's bow atop that smile that revealed weary triumph in the face of a simple answer. 

  "You're a doctor." The voice, thunderous and silken, echoed from that very first day in 221B. The voice of promised excitement, a dangerous occupation, of temptation. John almost winced as the meaning of his words crystallised. His pulse, the blood distending his carotid artery, the chambers of his heart responding to circulating adrenaline and all of this truth transmitted through skin to skin. On every single perilous mission he had followed Sherlock into, in years gone by. Hours ago, in the darkness of the room across the street where threat had passed inches from him. And now here, in the complete safety of their living room, beneath the touch of one man. There was only one unifying factor.

 A stillness swept through him, the embers he had watched in the fire blew hot in his bones, and all fear was consumed in its wake. Moving at the gentle pressure of thumb and forefinger on his jaw, John now examined and allowed himself to be examined. Irises flushed deep jade with darkness as they closed, cheeks of cool alabaster, and a mouth that bloomed hot on his own as they met.

 

_No. I'll never stop._

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to leave comments, I'm coming up with a few ideas for another story so any advice would be appreciated.


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